


Try to Let Your Heart Fly Free

by paradis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:23:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Paint me in a corner, cover me with rage.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>The problem is that Stiles is always talking, but he’s never actually saying what he’s feeling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try to Let Your Heart Fly Free

**Author's Note:**

> (alternate title: Stiles is Actually Really Emotionally Stunted but that just didn’t fit with the program.  
> Thank you to my wonderful, wonderful beta [mirajanescarlet](http://mirajanescarlet.tumblr.com/) (that's her tumblr!) who cut out my commas, reminded me that I don't _always_ need to put 'and' after everything, pointed out that the fics we usually end up hating are the ones that usually turn out better (hopefully, that is exactly the case), helped me with my summary, and prodded me to post this... today!  
>  If anyone is interested, you can always pop over to my [my tumblr](http://korynnvictoria.tumblr.com/) and say hello. I'm big on the sterek postings, and I always follow back, so don't be afraid.   
> Also, title of this fic and the lyrics in the summary are taken from the song [Halo](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpS0nRaeQbI) by Tim McGraw, because it actually carried me through the end of this fic in an incredible way, somehow.  
> P.S. The Idea for this fic came about because there's always fics about Derek being the emotionally stunted one, but there's never any about _Stiles_ being emotionally stunted. So I give you this.

The problem is that Stiles is always talking, but he’s never actually saying what he’s feeling. There are thousands of emotions coursing through him in the hours of a day, but Stiles will maybe only actually say what he’s actually feeling _once_ throughout the day. Stiles is the King of the Fake Smiles. Stiles is the King of the False Emotions. He perfected it back when his father suddenly found himself a widower and a single dad all in the course of an hour, staring down at a skinny ten year old boy who was confused and angry and sad and hurt, arms wrapped around himself. His dad said, “Are you alright?”

And Stiles blinked. Because how the _hell_ was he supposed to be alright? His mother was dead, his heart didn’t feel right, and he couldn’t really process anything. He was also finding it hard to breathe. But he knew what his dad wanted to hear, so he nodded slowly, and said, “Yes. Yeah,” cleared his throat, “I’ll be just fine,” and offered a tentative smile. And his dad looked so relieved, Stiles knew what he had to do from then on out. 

Lie. 

==

The problem is that Stiles sort of sucks at displaying proper emotion _and_ reacting to others’ emotions. When someone gets hurt, Stiles’ response isn’t to automatically say, “Are you alright?” it’s more leaning towards a hyperactive giggle and a “That _had_ to hurt, oh, my God, you so could have made it on Youtube!” 

When someone is sad, Stiles avoids them completely. When someone tries to show their love, be it by hugging or telling him, Stiles ducks out of the room as fast as he can, loudly, nervously saying, “You too! You – you too, of course!” 

Stiles’ mother was the _best_ hugger in the world. She never let a day go by without saying she loved him or his dad. She offered smiles and hugs and kisses on Stiles’ way out the door, on his way back into the house, and Stiles never felt alone. 

Maybe it’s that Stiles’ house is so quiet and empty now, so distant from any emotion, that he doesn’t know _how_ to react. Or maybe it’s that his mother taught him how to, and he doesn’t want anything to do with those memories, not up front and close, so he pushes them to the back of his mind; and he moves forward, with that same King of Fake Smiles smile pasted on his face, and words falling from his lips like he knows what he’s talking about. 

Most of the time, he doesn’t know where he gets his words; he just keeps talking anyways. That’s why the Adderall came into play. Stiles doesn’t mind, it’s something to keep him that much calmer and distant from the rest of the world. 

==

It starts as just hooking up. It always does, in every cliché romantic comedy Stiles has ever seen. Stiles knows he’s probably supposed to want something more, being the younger, more vulnerable one, but he’s actually really satisfied with Derek jumping into his window every night for a quick blow job or fuck, and then sneaking back out when they finally catch their breaths again. 

The first time it happens, Stiles is dazed, still breathless, when Derek leans over, grabs his jeans, and does this little hip-twisty, back-arching motion to pull them up over his hips and zip them. Stiles looks over. Jesus _fuck_ , Derek’s commando. And then Stiles remembers what happened to Derek’s briefs and he gives a kind of perverted little huff of a laugh, leans back into the pillows and stretches, long and pleasant. Derek looks over and arches an eyebrow. “Don’t,” he says.

“What?” Stiles asks, pouting a little, because _like Derek knows what he’s thinking,_ he’s a werewolf, not a fucking psychic.

“Don’t even think about it. You’ve already ruined my briefs; I’m not walking home naked, Stiles.” 

Stiles sniffs, “Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. Derek looks at him. “You’d have your shirt.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m leaving now.”

Stiles stretches again, and groans. “I think you broke something in me,” he yawns, “but it feels good. So – see you around?”

Derek rolls his eyes again, and if Stiles didn’t know Lydia Martin personally, he’d say Derek Hale was the King of Rolling Eyes, but Lydia Martin has that title, so Stiles just offers him a cheeky grin. “Hey, don’t forget to land on your ass for me on the way down,” Stiles says, and Derek flips him off, before disappearing out the window. 

And that’s the best part. Nothing changes. Derek and Stiles still bicker and argue and disagree on things routinely. Stiles still sometimes makes stupid, reckless decisions that somehow manage to get the job done just right, and Derek still tells him in no uncertain terms that he’s an idiot and stupid and reckless, and _how has he survived this many years_? And Stiles will offer that same cheeky grin that drives Derek crazy, and retort with something snarky. 

The best part is that _nothing changes,_ and Stiles doesn’t want anything to. 

He didn’t think Derek did, either. 

==

Derek gets kidnapped. Again. 

As if getting kidnapped by Kate Argent wasn’t enough of an issue, then he gets kidnapped by some out-of-town hunters, and Stiles thinks, _we have a major problem._ Now they’ve got three extra, restless pack members on their hands, and Scott isn’t entirely concerned with finding Derek. Until Stiles says, “You’ll inherit them.”

Scott pauses. “What?”

“Erica. Isaac. Boyd.” Stiles ticks the names off his fingers, watching Scott for a reaction, and a reaction he gets. Scott reaches up and tears at his hair a little before pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t _want_ them,” Scott says in almost a whine, and Stiles blinks. For a guy that’s a werewolf, he wishes Scott would be a _little_ more mature. 

“They’re already turning to you for advice on what to do,” Stiles says to him instead, shifting on his feet, glancing over to where the rest of Derek’s pack is standing, watching the two of them talk, “You agreed to be a part of Derek’s pack, remember. You’re second-in-command, this is what happens. _Responsibility._ ” 

“I hate responsibility,” he thinks he hears Scott mutter, but hey, he’s no werewolf. Scott speaks up then, “Fine, let’s look for him.” 

He thinks he hears Isaac clap sarcastically. Erica huffs, and Boyd doesn’t say anything because Boyd pretty much _never_ says anything anymore unless it’s to be threatening. “Well that is – I’m glad you made the right decision, buddy,” Stiles claps Scott on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

Scott glares at him. Erica, Isaac, and Boyd have all walked over. Erica narrows her eyes. “Don’t even, Mouthy,” she says. “You think I don’t smell Derek on you all the time? You’re helping us find him.”

“ _Excuse_ me, what?” Stiles yelps, as Erica grabs him by the ear and leads him towards his Jeep. The rest of the pack follows. “Smell him on me, what are you talking about?”

“You _literally_ smell like you bathe in Derek at least twice a week,” Scott tells him, and Stiles sighs, does not admit the truth. 

“What have we said about overuse of the word _literally_?”

“Literally,” Erica says, eyes narrowed like she’s daring him to protest, and Stiles swallows. 

“I am a teenage guy, okay? I have needs! Needs that – Derek has needs too! We… reciprocate in taking care of those needs,” Stiles manages to say. Scott pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I so could have gone the rest of my life without picturing that,” Scott says, sounding pained. 

“Ugh,” Isaac agrees, and they reach Stiles’ Jeep. They all climb in, because apparently Stiles is now a lycanthropic chauffeur. 

“Besides,” Erica grumbles, buckling her seatbelt in the passenger seat next to Stiles, “Derek cares about you. He’ll want to see you when we find him.”

Stiles curls his fingers around the steering wheel as he backs out of his parking spot, “Don’t be ridiculous. Derek can’t stand me. I can’t stand him.”

Erica shoots him a look. 

==

It takes them a day, which is good, because when they find Derek, he’s suffering from Wolfsbane poisoning, having taken a hit from a bullet. Stiles steps up to one of the fallen hunters, unloads his rifle, picks up a bullet, and walks back over to Derek. He goes through the steps of un-poisoning Derek’s body, and right before he’s about to slap the Wolfsbane over Derek’s arm, he gives him an apologetic look. “It’s gonna hurt,” he says, and Derek just looks at him.

“They told me they kidnapped and killed you,” he said. Stiles’ eyes widen. “ _That_ hurt,” Derek says. “Put it on. Now.” Stiles slaps it on, and Derek falls back, howling. 

“Um,” Stiles says, and this is what he means about not displaying the proper emotions. Derek just said something _pretty profound_ , a milestone for him, and Stiles can’t say anything. He has no words, for once in his life. Derek looks at him for a long moment. 

“We should go,” Stiles finally says, and something shutters in Derek’s eyes. 

Stiles helps him up. 

They all head out to the Jeep and Stiles opens the door, waiting for everyone to pile in, but instead they just stand there, watching Derek. “I’m running,” Derek finally says. “I need to be able to…” he clears his throat.

“Move,” Scott says, like he understands, and then he peels his shirt off, throwing it towards Stiles, “No, I want to run too,” Erica, Isaac, and Boyd nod. 

“We will too,” Erica says, and she throws a look back at Stiles, something accusing and sympathetic all at once.

“Hey, no,” Stiles holds his hands up, “the less wolves I have to cart home, the happier I am.” Which is not exactly true, but he _is_ relieved he doesn’t have to suffer a car ride with Derek after everything that just happened. Derek watches him for a moment before he leans over and inhales right where Stiles’ throat is, then reaches his tongue out and licks a strip. 

“See you when I see you,” Derek says, lowly, and Stiles swallows. 

“Sure thing,” he says weakly, and he’s not sure how he feels about the others in the pack knowing about their _thing_ and he’s really not sure how he feels about the others seeing he and Derek interact like this, but he is sure that he _loves_ when Derek does that. Which Derek _knows,_ the bastard. He climbs into the Jeep and just breathes, because they are alive, and Derek is alive, and Derek just displayed affection in public, and holy shit. Stiles is uncomfortable with that.

Like a lot. 

==

The problem is that that’s not the last time, either. So Stiles starts ducking from it, like he ducks from his father’s hugs, and his father’s ‘I-Love-You’s’ and other peoples’ hugs and affectionate words, too. He’ll find himself at a pack meeting and talking ninety miles a minute, and Derek will unthinkingly (Stiles _thinks_ ) reach out and place his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles will stop, falter for a moment, before picking back up where he left off. He’ll get uncomfortable really fast and find an excuse to get up. Oh, Erica needs more soda? Scott needs another slice of pizza? Isaac looks like he could use another napkin! Boyd – looks like Boyd. And Stiles will dart out from under Derek’s hand, where his thumb is rubbing small circles right under Stiles’ hairline, and he’ll get whatever he was supposed to get, and sit on the opposite side of the room, shifting restlessly. 

The problem is that it makes him uncomfortable, but he doesn’t _hate_ it entirely, either. Derek’s hand on the back of his neck makes Stiles stop talking for a minute, and when he picks back up, he’s slower, more thoughtful. Derek’s thumb rubbing circles into his skin makes that buzzing feeling in his blood disappear for just that amount of time when they’re in contact. Everything comes back the second Stiles is out from under Derek’s touch, and Stiles always feels that simultaneous feeling of disappointment and relief as he sits on the couch across the room, as the buzzing starts up again, and his mouth starts moving. 

The _problem_ is that it’s a problem in the first place, because it was never supposed to become one, which sort of pisses Stiles off and worries him too. 

==

“Oh, hey,” Stiles says, completely unsurprised to find Derek in his room when he gets home from school. Derek is sitting on his bed Indian style; reading one of the many library books Stiles has pulled in an attempt to better understand werewolves in the past year. Derek nods, holds up a finger to keep Stiles from talking while he finishes the page he’s reading, but Stiles keeps talking anyways. “You know, it’s a little _wrong_ that I don’t even jump anymore at finding you here. In my room. On my bed. Going through my things,” Stiles chirps, tossing his things on the floor and peeling his coat off. “Most people would classify this as _some_ version of Stockholm’s Syndrome.”

Derek looks up and shoots him a dirty glare. “Stockholm’s Syndrome,” he says flatly, slamming the book shut. “I’m sorry, have _you_ been kidnapped and shot recently?”

Stiles scowls. 

“You know what I meant.” Derek just looks at him. “Well you know what I was _trying_ to imply,” Stiles amends. Derek holds a finger up and crooks it, gesturing for Stiles to come to him. 

“No way, I have homework,” Stiles shakes his head. “You are not seducing me with your archy-brow and your crooky-finger.” 

“Those are made up words, Stiles, now shut up and come here,” Derek gestures again with his finger, and Stiles swallows. Somehow his feet move forward even though his brain is telling him _no, we have to put a stop to this, somehow it’s getting a little too serious._

He crawls on the bed, right up to Derek, knees on either side of him. Somehow his arms wind their way around Derek’s neck, and before he realizes it, they’re kissing, fast and fierce and dirty, just this side of vicious; just the way Stiles likes it. When their teeth clash a little, when Derek nips at his bottom lip and clutches at Stiles’ hips with trembling fingers, that’s when he rocks his hips downwards, cock meeting Derek’s, and he moans. 

“More,” he moans, and Derek grips his hips a little tighter, pulling him closer. 

Later, they’re lying there, and Derek isn’t making a move to get up. Instead, he’s curled around Stiles, the big spoon to Stiles’ little, and his breath is playing across Stiles’ neck, one lone finger trailing across Stiles’ ribcage. Stiles closes his eyes and breathes deep. He’s not tired. He wants Derek to leave, and he doesn’t want Derek to leave. He _doesn’t know what he wants._

“Mm,” he murmurs as Derek kisses his neck, and then, finally, Derek gets up, the impromptu cuddling session seemingly over. Stiles cracks one eye open and watches as Derek pulls his jeans over his hips, and steals one of Stiles’ t-shirts, tugging it over his head. 

“I’m going to run out of shirts,” he accuses Derek, “You’re stretching them.”

“They were too tight anyways,” Derek glowers, and Stiles snorts, rolls his eyes. 

“See you around,” he says. 

Derek pauses at the window, turns back to face him. “See you when I see you.”

Stiles is a minor bit disappointed that Derek left, and a lot disappointed that he’s upset about Derek leaving instead of spending the night lying beside him. 

==

Scott takes a tumble down a cliff, and Stiles suppresses the urge to laugh, instead covering his mouth, eyes wide. Something bubbles up inside him and he says, “Oh, my God, are you okay?” sounding really panicky. Everyone turns to look at him, because Stiles has _never_ done that, not since the pack started going on their crazy-dangerous adventures together. He’s always been all, ‘That was so wicked looking,’ or, ‘I think I’m actually going to puke,’ or, ‘Holy God that was ridiculous.’ He never _asks_ if they’re okay. Stiles feels even more panic at the fact that the glitch in his brain is apparently righting itself, and he’s not sure if he likes that. 

Scott blinks. “Um,” he says, looking down at the way his leg is pointing in the opposite direction, “I might need a little help.” 

The rest of the pack winces in sympathy while Derek unflinchingly steps forward and snaps Scott’s leg back into place so it can start properly healing. 

“Oh Holy Jesus,” Stiles says loudly.

It’s good to know there’s still a little of him left, he thinks, as Derek shoots him a dirty look, and the rest of the pack rolls their eyes. 

When they’re walking back to their respective cars, Scott only limping a little now, Stiles says to Derek, “There’s something wrong with me.” Derek stops and grabs Stiles’ wrists, jerking him back. He starts patting him down, then grips his face so he can look Stiles in the eye. 

“Where? Where are you hurt?” he demands, sounding anxious. 

Stiles shakes his head, “No I mean – I don’t know what I meant. Never mind,” he says, and pulls away from Derek. Derek looks at him contemplatively for a moment, before nodding slowly. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll drive you home. Boyd can drive the rest of the pack back in my car.” Stiles is already shaking his head.

“No, it’s okay,” he insists, “I have to take Scott home anyways and I’m tired and –” he breaks off before he can tell the truth, before he can say _I need space, you’re clouding my head up in all the wrong and right ways, and I don’t know what to do about it._ Derek looks somewhat disappointed, but he’s Derek, so he doesn’t say anything about it, because it’s displaying emotions other than anger. 

He does lean in though, his nose pressed against Stiles’ throat for a moment, his hands on Stiles’ waist, and Stiles’ heart stutters for a second before he pulls away again. “Be careful,” Derek tells him, and Stiles swallows. 

“See you,” he says, and hurries back to his jeep, where Scott is already inside, waiting, flexing his newly healed leg. 

==

The problem is that Derek says it first. Stiles is not expecting it, and things sort of just go straight to hell the second Derek says it. Things were already sort of in hell before Derek said it anyways, because Stiles had just been drowning in a lake after being thrown into it while unconscious. These _fucking_ hunters, Stiles thinks, spitting water out of his lungs. Derek claps him on the back to help the process along. “Oh, my God,” Stiles rasps, still on all fours. 

“Stiles,” Derek says in a growl. Stiles looks up. Derek’s eyes are red, and he looks dangerous and worried all at once, like he’s thinking about whether he needs to stick around for Stiles or run after the people who injured him and rip them to shreds. 

“No, no,” Stiles holds up a hand, waving it, “I’m good, I’ve only ingested three fourths of the lake while passed out.” He spits out some more lake water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Shut up,” Derek says, as he moves in closer, wrapping his arms around Stiles, wet clothes and lake water and all. Stiles is stiff in his arms. Derek huffs against his neck. “I love you,” he says, and Stiles goes completely still. 

“What,” he says, still raspy. 

Derek must have thought he really didn’t hear it, and Stiles still isn’t sure he really _did_ hear it, so for extra measure, Derek kisses his neck and says it again, says, “I love you,” and Stiles can’t even fucking _breathe_ ; he’s sure he’s having a stroke. 

Then he starts struggling. Derek looks confused as Stiles pushes against his chest, struggles weakly to get away from him, stumbles back a couple feet and finally gets to standing up. “No,” he says shakily, “no, I - _no._ ” He starts making his way out of the clearing, towards his vehicle. The rest of the pack is already waiting by their respective cars. Scott is pacing nervously, like he, too, needs to reassure himself that Stiles is alright. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d almost think Derek sounds hurt. “What are you talking about?”

“This is not what that is,” Stiles says to him, whirling around to face him, pointing a finger at Derek, accusing. “It’s not a relationship. It’s not _love,_ Derek.” 

Derek doesn’t even have the nerve to look hurt now, just confused. “Stiles, is that what you thought?”

Stiles just stares at him, before fleeing to his car, wrenching the door open and throwing himself inside, still shaking. Scott is already in the passenger side, looking at him anxiously. “What’s wrong?” Scott demands, “What did Derek say?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says shakily, “Derek said _nothing,_ ” because Stiles is going to forget this moment, if it’s the last thing he does. If he has to concuss himself to do it, he’ll forget it, he swears.

He pulls out of there as fast as he can, making sure he doesn’t watch Derek standing there watching Stiles’ taillights disappear into the night. 

==

The problem is that Stiles is avoiding Derek, with everything inside him. Phone calls, texts, chances to visit, they’re all ignored. Stiles locks his window at night, he hangs out with Scott and Allison every day until he can’t possibly take one more googly-eyed _I love you so much,_ while they kiss and touch and hold hands. 

Allison asks him about it first, when they’re grabbing pizza after school one day. “So, it’s been two weeks since you’ve seen Derek,” she says.

“Yeeees,” Stiles says slowly, but his heart skips a beat, because this is _definitely_ something he doesn’t want to talk about. Allison eyes him as the waiter hands her a slice of pizza served up on a paper plate. 

“Did something happen?” she asks him. Scott is at their table already, wolfing down his pizza and pretending not to listen to their conversation.

“Hey, you know what?” Stiles says cheerfully, “I wish they’d put like, more cheese on their pizza here. Even when I order _extra_ cheese, it’s never enough, and it’s always got so much sauce on it, you know? Like, how hard is it to perfect the perfect cheese-to-sauce ratio? You get what I’m saying?” The waiter hands him his slice, and he shoves it into his mouth, taking a bite. It’s burning hot, and Stiles’ eyes water. 

“Stiles,” Allison says disapprovingly. Stiles swallows the huge bite of pizza, and avoids eye contact with Allison.

“So this is really good,” he says, and his fingers are trembling. 

“You can talk to me, Stiles,” she says gently, reaching out and brushing her fingers across his shoulder. Stiles doesn’t mean to, but he flinches anyways. He wasn’t expecting it, and he hasn’t had any physical contact with anyone since Derek, two weeks ago, hauling him out of the lake and wrapping his arms around Stiles’ wet frame, whispering those words, the ones Stiles refuses to think about. 

“I don’t – we should get back to the table,” Stiles says urgently when Allison looks confused and hurt all at once from Stiles pulling away. “Scott’s probably having his own panic attack without either of us there.”

Allison stays quiet for a minute, before she offers him an unsteady smile. “Yeah,” she says, “he probably is. He’s worried about you too, you know?”

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” Stiles shrugs, and Allison leaves it alone after that, thank God. 

Scott finally approaches Stiles himself, three days later. “Stiles, please just tell me what’s wrong!” he blurts out, collapsing on Stiles’ bed. Stiles whirls slowly around on his computer chair to face him, and arches a brow. 

“Something’s wrong?” he asks, blinking.

“Derek’s acting like everyone has personally offended him. His scent is fading from your room, and _you_ haven’t smelled like him in two and a half weeks. Also, you’re kind of…”

“What?” Stiles snaps.

“Quiet,” Scott says worriedly, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Quiet, who me?” Stiles snorts, “You’d think you would take this as the gift it is, my friend, but hey, if you want me to talk, I can _talk._ Do you want to talk about the Giants taking it all in the World Series this year, because that is _going_ to happen, my friend. It is,” he mimes swinging a bat, and Scott rolls his eyes, “Or we could talk about Chemistry and how you are _failing_ it, despite mine and Allison’s faithful tutoring sessions.”

“Stiles,” Scott yells, “Just tell me!”

Stiles cringes. He swallows, because there aren’t many people that he can’t get away with talking in circles around, but Scott is one of the few, because his best friend knows how he works. He knows he talks and talks to avoid the real issue, and Scott knows that’s what he’s doing now. He knows something is wrong. Stiles taps at his desk, staring at the wall ahead as he says flatly, “Derek said he loves me.”

Scott is totally quiet for a moment. 

“That’s – that’s great, right?” he offers, unsure.

Stiles breathes in. “No, Scott. No, it is not great, because that is not what we are.”

“Um,” Scott says, because this is clearly Allison’s job, the emotional talks, even though he and Scott managed just fine before her. Now, though, apparently Scott feels there are better words to be said, he just doesn’t know them. 

“You’re not? What – what are you then?” he finally asks, studying Stiles. 

“We – we were, you know. A hookup. Casual.”

“Casual,” Scott says flatly. “Stiles, I’m pretty sure you’re smarter than I am, but sometimes I have to wonder.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles yelps, offended. 

“Derek’s scent was all _over_ you. He scented you in front of us. You were not ‘casual,’” and Stiles doesn’t think the air quotes were exactly necessary there, “You were… official.”

Stiles huffs. 

“The point,” Scott glares, “is that’s not what it was for Derek. Maybe at first it sort of was? But it definitely isn’t now. And I never imagined you’d be the type that wanted casual, Stiles.”

“I’m all about the cas,” Stiles throws back at him. Scott rolls his eyes. 

“Or you’re scared,” he counters. Stiles twitches, a visibly physical twitch that is so obviously evident to Scott that he can’t deny what Scott just said. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. 

“You’ve been talking and talking for a long time, Stiles,” Scott says standing up, “But you never really tell anybody what you’re really _thinking,_ do you?” 

And Stiles didn’t know Scott had him figured out that completely, but it just proves, right there, how much of a best friend Scott really is, that he knows him that well and never used it against him. Never forced him to talk anyways. That Scott was always just there for him no matter what. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything though, because he’s not sure what to say. He watches Scott walk out, and then he turns back to his homework, but for obvious reasons, he can’t focus on it any longer. 

==

The problem turns into a _huge_ problem about a week later, when he’s still avoiding Derek, but he feels even shittier about it, because now the entire pack has been affected, too. Apparently Derek is ripping them apart at pack meetings, and Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are taking even more abuse because they live with him. Erica slams into a chair next to him in the cafeteria, and gives him a pleading look. “I don’t know what to do,” she says. “Last night, Derek tore apart our entire living area.”

“You have a living area in an abandoned warehouse,” Stiles blinks.

Erica looks offended. “Look,” she says, “just because I’m a werewolf doesn’t mean I’m not still a girl. I have standards, Stiles. _Standards_ that involve having something clean to sit on. Like, not the floor.”

“Look,” Stiles swallows, “I don’t know how you think this is my fault.”

The entire table goes dead silent. Everyone is looking at him like he’s lost his mind. “I told you he wasn’t right in the head,” Isaac says gleefully, and Stiles gives him a dirty look and flips him off. 

“Stiles,” Erica says patiently, “Honey, it _is_ your fault.”

“Erica,” Allison murmurs. Stiles doesn’t say anything.

“You just _dumped_ him. I mean, and told him it was nothing. That’s worse than a text message.”

“I didn’t…” Stiles opens and closes his mouth. Finally, when he realizes he has nothing to say, he stands up, grabbing his trash. “I have to go,” he says, and Erica is the only one who doesn’t look sympathetic now. 

He flees the school like he’s just failed his Chem test, and peels out of the parking lot, chewing on his bottom lip. When he gets to his house, he bursts through the door and into the living room, where his dad is sitting. “Stiles,” his dad says, surprised, “You’re home early?”

“I’ve been lying to you!” Stiles shouts, and his dad stares at him, “I’ve been lying to you and you haven’t even asked me _why_ even though you _know_ I’m lying! It’s like you don’t want to know. And I – I have these secrets and these things I want to say, but I don’t know how, and I sort of hate myself sometimes, and there are all these words trapped inside my head and I don’t even know where to begin,” Stiles is breathless when he finishes, and his dad is halfway off the couch, unsure whether or not to stand up and come over to Stiles, or to sit back down and let him keep talking. 

“I just… don’t know,” Stiles says, “Scott says I talk, but I never talk about what I’m really thinking, and I…”

“Wanted to try?” his dad offers, looking nervous. 

“We don’t have to – it was stupid,” Stiles flails his hands, backing up out of the living room. His dad jumps up. 

“No! Stiles, no,” he says quickly, “Sit down,” he adds when Stiles still looks like he’s about to flee. Stiles comes back into the living room and sits on the chair across from the couch. “I’ve known you were lying about something,” his dad admits, “for a while now. I just… I don’t always know how to approach it because you remind me so much of your mother and you talk in circles when you want to distract someone.”

It’s the first time Stiles has heard his dad mention his mother completely sober since she _died._ Something inside him clangs, rattles, and shakes, and he grips his hands together tightly. “I did it because I thought you wanted me to,” Stiles whispers, and his dad’s head snaps up.

“What? Stiles, what are you _talking_ about?”

“When – when she died, there was this look on your face. Like you just couldn’t talk about feelings, because that was m – mom’s job,” Stiles stutters. He’s not doing so well with _actually_ talking. His knee is bouncing up and down nervously, his pulse is skyrocketing, and his words are all stuttered. “Like you just wanted to hear that I was fine. And there were all these people asking if I was okay, and I couldn’t tell them the truth – not really. So I talked around them. A lot.” Stiles shrugs.

“Stiles, I never wanted you to _lie to me,_ ” his dad looks horrified, and furious, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s furious with him. Maybe a little with himself. 

“I – it wasn’t just you,” Stiles says, “It was me, too. I hated talking about it. I hated talking about feelings, emotions. I’m not good with them.”

His dad gives him a look that says he knows just what he means. “And I… I was kind of seeing someone,” Stiles swallows, editing out the messy details, “and things got too deep, so I guess I bailed.”

His dad looks at him for a long time before he crosses the room and clutches Stiles’ shoulder. “I love you,” he says, and tears fill Stiles’ eyes. “Son, I love you,” he says, and Stiles shakes with a silent sob, leaning forward when his father wraps his arms around him. “I’m always going to be here, and I always want to listen when you talk – not just about things you _think_ I want to hear,” he rubs his hand along Stiles’ back, and Stiles just keeps sobbing into his dad’s shoulder.

“I love you, Stiles,” his dad says, and it’s a cleansing cry. 

==

The solution is pretty simple: find Derek. 

He finds him working out at the old warehouse, a sheen of sweat covering him, looking fierce and determined. Stiles leans against one of the subway cars and keeps his arms crossed, waiting. “What are you doing here, Stiles?” 

“I uh, came to see you,” Stiles says, and grips the back of his neck nervously, waiting for Derek to turn around. When he does, Stiles sees barely veiled anger, hurt, and confusion racing across his face, and Stiles feels guilty. Really, really guilty for letting it go this long. 

“Why?” Derek spits out, and he starts doing pull ups, grunting a little with the effort. 

“Because I thought – I thought I we should talk?” It comes out like a question.

“Stiles, you’re not exactly the best at talking when it comes to being serious,” Derek grunts, and ouch. That hurt, Stiles thinks. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed you away. When you said that,” Stiles tells Derek. Derek keeps working out, one pull up after another. “I… I had a talk with my dad,” he finally says, “Because this all kind of leads back to this time when I thought that maybe my dad and I would be better if I just shut up about what I was feeling, because that was sort of my mom’s job – dealing with my emotions. And my dad needed me to just be a good kid and take care of him, so he could take care of _me._ And it’s not an excuse for how I treated you – this – us,” Stiles says, because it _isn’t._

Nothing excuses hurting someone, be it on purpose or accidentally, in Stiles’ opinion. But an apology can still help smooth things over, and Stiles does want to fix this. 

“The thing is,” Stiles swallows, and clears his throat, “The thing is, I do. Want this to be more than just something casual. I knew it even when I was denying it. Derek,” he laughs hollowly, “There are these feelings; you make me want to run away at the same time that you make me want to stay lying right next to you for all of forever. You make me want to whisper things I’ve never said at the same time that you make me clam up so that I can’t even find the normal words I use. You calm me down and hype me up all at the same time. When you’re pissing me off, you’re making me happy all at once.”

Derek’s push ups have stopped, and he’s just staring at Stiles now, fingers curling into his palms. “I don’t know what falling in love is like,” Stiles offers, “and I’ve been denying it all along, but I think that might be what it is, for me, Derek.”

Derek doesn’t say anything. 

“I just… I love you,” Stiles says, “I love you, and I’m terrible with words, for all that I talk, I’m fucking _awful_ with them, so you won’t hear me say it all the time. And it’s great that you said it first, it’s amazing. And I wish I could say it all the time without getting this feeling like… like I might implode, or something. But it’s a good feeling,” Stiles says, moving closer. 

“It’s a feeling I could get used to,” he says. 

“That was a pretty good speech,” Derek says, “For someone who is so terrible with words.”

Stiles bursts out laughing, as Derek pulls him into his arms and kisses him breathless. 

Stiles could definitely get used to it.


End file.
